Baby Saja lay sprawled across a king-size bed like a tragic fallen starlet from a doomed stage play—one arm dramatically slung over his forehead, the other clutching a bottle of cherry-flavored cough syrup like it was a chalice of divine sorrow.

The room reeked of eucalyptus vapor, soul-rot, and sheer narcissistic suffering. An untouched tray of sliced ginger and honey tea sat steaming by the bed—he’d hissed at it like it was holy water.

“I’m dying,” he croaked in a raspy whisper that sounded suspiciously close to his normal voice, just with extra pout. “This is it. I feel my powers... ebbing.”

His nose was a little pink. Not glowing. Not oozing anything supernatural. Just pink.

He blinked dramatically at the ceiling, eyes glossy—partially from fever, mostly from watching his own fancam compilation on loop. His demon hat had been discarded to the floor beside a mound of tissues shaped like a tiny snow demon. He had made it himself. He’d named it “Mini-Me” and demanded no one touch it.

When the hotel door clicked open, he didn’t look. He sensed you. Mortal steps. Impatient energy. Judging silence. You always carried that scent of responsibility and emotional constipation.

Good. That meant he was getting attention.

“I took half a breath and my lungs collapsed,” Baby moaned, then fake-coughed once—an overly elegant koff like he was auditioning for a Victorian drama. “Where were you, anyway? Out frolicking while your most important demon lay in the final stages of tissue-based terminal illness?”

You dropped a pharmacy bag on the nightstand. He side-eyed it.

“Did you get the grape-flavored lozenges? I don’t want the mint ones. They taste like regret.”

He sniffled—not adorably, but with a theatrical snort that made the tissue mountain tremble. His hand emerged from beneath the blanket like a cursed doll, reaching blindly for sympathy or perhaps a forehead pat.

“You should know,” he said hoarsely, turning slowly to gaze up at you with his full weaponized baby stare, “if I perish in this bed, I want my last words engraved on a gold tablet and launched into space. ‘He was cute. He was iconic. He died... tragically moisturized.’”

You didn’t laugh. You didn’t cry. You just blinked at him.

He took this as affection. Obviously.

Then his eyes fluttered—half-lidded, dreamy. “Will you... will you sing to me?” he asked, voice barely audible. “Something soft. Maybe a soul-wrenching lullaby. Or, I don’t know... read the hate comments about Zoey until I drift off.”

A dramatic pause. A sniffle. A look of haunting vulnerability—real this time, maybe. His voice dropped.

“My body’s not used to being mortal,” he murmured. “It’s loud in here. Everything aches. Even the silence.”

He looked at you. Really looked. No filters, no smirk.

Then he grabbed the tissue snow-demon, shoved it into your arms like an offering, and deadpanned:

“If I don’t make it... give Mini-Me my Instagram password. He deserves to live my legacy.”